I'm Glad You're Him
by sarahofearth
Summary: WANTED 2008 Contains major spoilers for the movie. Wesley Gibson finds a way to revive Cross at the river. What might he say to the man newly-revealed as his father? AU. One shot or WIP, depending on reviews. No slash whatsoever.
1. Renewal

**MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE**

**A/N: **I know I have other, more important loyalties but I just had to type this up. Other peoples waiting for updates, sorry I keep writing stories for random movies.

**Disclaimer: **I want to own Wanted, but I don't. Poo.

**I'm Glad You're Him**

Gasping, aching, sputtering, I drag Cross- I'm sorry, dear old _Dad_, to the shallow edge of the bank. I'm exhausted and nothing in my month-long stay at the Fraternity seems to have prepared me for the emotional stress I've gotten from all of this _betrayal_. Once Cross (I can't bring myself to actually call him "Daddy" just yet) is safely heaved from his watery grave, I take that as my cue to face-plant beside him with the grunt of a man that's got more weight on him than the _Titanic_.

_What the_- _How did this_- _Where do I_- I can't seem to finish asking the obvious questions because that same one that's been burning a hole in my eyes for the past years, all my life if I think about it, is still penetrating my vision, as powerful as the day I was born:

_Who am I?_

I'm breathing hard as I try to focus on the man revealed as my father instead of the way the clouds are twisting into those three maddening words. It's funny. Now that I'm not busy hating him and having my vision hazed by the Fraternity, I see the resemblance. I've got his nose and, upon using a finger to lift a heavy lid, the same baby blues that probably got me hired for that accounting job in the first place (it sure wasn't my know-how with numbers; I can tell ya that).

It kind of bugs me that he's tall though, which means I had the misfortune of inheriting Mom's vertically-challenged genes.

All this information has done is confirm that I've just shot the one man that could help me and tell me who I am.

I shot my dad.

If he were alive to hear it, I'm sure I would have apologized, but he's not. He's lying lifeless beside me, and I can't do a single thing about it. The recovery man wouldn't be able to stop the tears that are flowing freely from my eyes. The moment I saw him in the grocery store I should've known. What kind of son doesn't even sense the smallest spark of connection with his own father? What kind of monster have I become? If my "abilities" really were as sharp as I'm told, wouldn't that grant me the sense to know Cross was my father?

I feel like I'm searching blindly for an answer as I touch Cross' face with my bloodied, bruised fingers. Sniveling, I slide the tips weakly down until they touch his neck. I close my eyes, hoping for something even I know is impossible.

The faintest of twitches.

I snap out of my pain-filled reverie, honing in on my fingertips. I'm not imagining it! It's there. I can feel its vibration. That slightest pulse has filled me with more relief than the morning after my first meeting with Fox.

I suddenly forget about all the wounds I've sustained from the impromptu train crash and find myself on all fours, ripping open the buttons of Cross' shirt, revealing a very tan and tone chest. Instead of admiring the view of my father's abdomen (which is, really gross, by the way), I studied the hole in his chest… Just below his heart.

I did shoot my father, but I didn't kill him. I smile a watery grin, grateful to whoever has just given me the greatest break in my life, and wipe my dirty sleeve across my tear-stained face. I'm not out of the woods yet. I need to fix this. The wound is deep and the blood is flowing faster than the river we just climbed out of.

The river.

I turn to my side and spy the remains of the train twisted in the river's rocky mountainside. All sorts of things are floating up from its crumbled relics. Scrap metal, suitcases, bodies.

I try to block out the words "Innocent" and "Victims" from my head. I need to figure out my next move. I spot two suitcases floating near the bank and quickly rush to retrieve them. As I enter the cold water once more, it sends my cuts a stinging reminder that, yes, they haven't healed yet. I push past the petty pain and grab the handles of the brown leather cases, gripping them firmly with one and paddling back to the shore with the other.

With one final stroke, I'm back at the river's edge with Cross hurriedly zipping the bags open to search their contents. Please have a first-aid kit. Please have a first-aid kit. Nothing. Both bags were your usual clothes and hair dryer deal. People should know to carry these things on train trips. True, it's a bit sad they had to learn that lesson the hard way with the train crash and all, but hopefully others will learn from their mistakes and… Violent, bloody deaths.

I sigh. I guess thinking my luck was about to change was just wishful thinking. What now? I need to find a way to get the bullet out and stop the blood flow. But I'm lost as to how I'm going to do that.

Wait, _lost_…

I got an idea.

Doing one more rifle through the bags, I find some tweezers and matches. Perfect. I put the tweezers between my thumb and index and wipe away the blood around the bullet hole with a red t-shirt. I grimace as I stare at the deepness. This is going to hurt.

I dig the tweezers into the gunshot hole and suddenly from Cross' gaping mouth I hear a sharp intake of breath. I'd probably smile… If the wound wasn't oozing so much blood, if I wasn't having such a hard time getting the tweezers around the bullet, and if I wasn't trying to keep my breakfast down.

"C'mon, Cross, wake up, that's it," I say. His eyes are fluttering and I'm starting to see some life in his pale blue eyes.

He's in pain. Heck, I'm in pain and I'm the one digging around for the bullet.

"Straight." He says hoarsely and I'm curious if the pain is making him delirious. What is "straight" supposed to mean? He's swallowing and looking ready to pass out. I double my already strained efforts to search for the round. "Straight down." He elaborates and I nod, understanding.

Minutes later, the crushed bullet is out (surprisingly with little peep on Cross' part) and the bullet hole is gushing like there's no tomorrow. Acting fast, I pull out my gun.

"Don't worry, not trying to finish the job," I assure, taking the clip out and removing one of the bullets. "I saw this on TV so I know what I'm doing." For some reason, Cross doesn't seem too sure. What does he know? He's dying. Okay, so being a specially trained assassin for the past twenty years does give him some street cred… But not much.

All right, if I remember correctly, I'm to empty the gun powder from the bullet on the abrasion, light it on fire, and watch the wound victim howl in pain. Opening the bullet, I sprinkle the powder onto the hole just as Mr. Eko did to Charlie when he got shot in the head. I've never been more thankful for miserable nights watching TV shows like Lost than I am now. Cross is eyeing my handiwork with a glazed over expression. I smile at him weakly as I take up the box of matches in a shaky hand. From what I watched on Lost, this part is supposed to be pretty frickin' excruciating.

"Okay, now this is only going to hurt for a second," I lie. Cross rolls his eyes. Okay, so this procedure is a little more common than I thought. So I don't read a lot of survival manuals in my spare time, sue me.

To say I'm afraid of what will happen is an understatement. I bite my lips together as I light the match, and Cross' whole body appears to tense up at the fiery sight. Quickly, I lower the match to 

the gunpowder and, BANG! It's on fire for about two seconds and then dies down quickly, all the while leaving a screaming Cross in its wake. If that doesn't wake him up, I don't know what will.

He's bolted up from the pain, crying out, and I look round, suddenly feeling paranoid, before turning back to him. My newly-discovered father is breathing heavily, looking down at the mesh of hardened gun powder blocking the flow of blood. He picks up the soiled red t-shirt and wipes the excess blood from his chest. Once done, he looks up at me, his expression a mixture of exhaustion, pain, and, oddly enough, gladness.

"Nice job, Wesley," Cross says my name with such familiarity it catches me off guard. He gives off the vibe that he's known me my entire life, and just maybe all those time when I felt like I was being watched, it was really him keeping an eye out for me. I grin at his compliment.

"No problem," I reply. "I'm just glad I did just the opposite of what my training told me to do."

His warming smile falters and he's suddenly looking at me with a disappointed frown, as if my statement brought up a low of bad memories. Wow. I said something wrong. The first conversation with my real father, Ladies and Gents, and I blow it on the first go. He's still looking at me with those hurt eyes, forcing mine to abort to safer territory. My muddy and bloody hands are suddenly incredibly interesting, my eyes seem to say.

"Wesley, did you hear what I said about the Fraternity?" he asks me. I nod. "I meant every word."

"Yeah, well, I doubt you would waste your dying breath on a lie." I reply. "Sorry about the whole shooting thing. I was so blinded by fury over the death of who I thought was my father, I guess I wasn't ready to accept you as my real one."

"And now? I'm curious as to what's changed your mind." He says. Knowing that saying we have the same nose and eyes will only make me sound shallow, I say the evidence I _really_ find to be most prominent.

"I think… I think it's the way you look at me. You look kind of scary, actually, because it looks like your staring straight into my thoughts. But you're not searching for answers or favors or money, I can tell. You're looking at someone that even I don't know… _The real me_." And, although I know it's going to sound cheesy once I let it escape my lips, I say, "You're son."

Despite the pain I know it's going to cause him, Cross reaches over and embraces me in his arms. I'm stiff in his touch but after several minutes, I lean into the warmth, closing my eyes. Immediately, I hear him grunt as we fall backward onto the mossy floor.

"Sorry," I apologize, trying to get up from where I awkwardly fell atop his arm. He halts me from my movement and I lay my head back down, skeptically, staring at his warming blue eyes.

"Stop apologizing, Wesley," He reprimands gently. He reaches over with his other arm and I flinch noticeably. He pauses before intertwining his fingers through my damp and bloody tresses, causing me to tense. Cross doesn't seem to mind the grime covering my hair as he stares at the curls affectionately. "You look so much like her… I've always thought that."

"Not true, I noticed we have the same nose and eyes." I pointed out, shying away from the idea that I looked feminine. It was hard enough being relatively short; I didn't need to start being compared with women too.

Cross just laughs at the joke and resumes massaging his hand through my hair. I look down, relaxing under the touch, almost enjoying the treatment, almost, but he pulls his hand away shortly after the thought.

"Sorry," he says, looking into my eyes. "I've always wanted to do that."

"'Sfine," I mumble, avoiding eye contact. Why am I feeling so shy suddenly? Why am I reverting back to that pathetic loser who lived such a meaningless life? Most importantly, why am I asking you when you're stuck in that same hole-in-the-wall desk job too? Sorry.

"I never wanted this for you," Cross begins, sliding a finger down my cheek. "You weren't ever supposed to learn about the Fraternity or your abilities, none of it."

I grab his hand as it caresses my cheek again, studying his long, nimble fingers. His fingers are immaculate and the muscles in them are taut with years of intricate handling. I look up at him with uncertainty and he offers a small smile.

"I'm glad you didn't get your way," His smile falters and I continue. "If you did, I'd be normal, pushed around, and stepped on. You would've been ashamed of the worthless sack of crap you fathered. I'm not kidding, you should've seen him."

His eyebrows knit together and he tightly grasps the hand I was holding his with.

"I saw him," he says, looking me in the eye with that same look that sends shivers down my spine. "And I wanted him as much then as I do now."

As I stare at him, searching his eyes for the lie, I wonder how he can look so sincere. I've heard of assassins being good actors but Cross takes the cake. Really, how can anybody love someone so worthless? At least now he has something to be proud of, a son whose followed in his footsteps. I had nothing to offer yet he still wanted me?

"You're lying," I conclude, sitting up and staring distantly ahead. The only proof I have that he's telling the truth are those shining blue eyes, but every visage of my past life is evidence against my father's orbs. "Nobody wanted me. Well, except my best friend when he needed an energy 

drink fix or my boss when she needed somebody to snap at. Aside from those two, I was just about the most insignificant iota on the face of this planet."

The afternoon sun peaks through the shade of the trees which shields us from any pesky onlookers. I avert my eyes to the floor after I let them linger on the river turning red with the blood of hundreds aboard that train.

The horrendous sight gets me to thinking, "God, am I even worth wanting now?"

Apparently, I just said that aloud because Cross is sitting up next to me, stifling a groan from the exertion, and firmly telling me, "This is not your fault. Stop thinking that it is."

It's an order and his steady stare isn't giving me much to argue with it. I begin to wonder what it would be like growing up with this man. Would things have been different? Would I be stronger or would he have still left out of shame over the son he bore? Knowing the cards life's dealt me, I'd probably end up in the same rut. 'Cause it's my destiny to fail.

"You're not insignificant, Wesley," Cross implores. "You're my son and no amount of murders, escapes, or lies has ever changed that."

His sharp eyes dig into mine. Seeking that secret disapproval isn't getting me anywhere. I'm not finding it. This guy, my dad, really believes what he's saying. His eyes hold a yearning I've only seen in one other. My reflection's yearning for something different, for change from the harsh, uncaring world, for solace in the embrace of one with true, unconditional love. Cross is all three.

"I'm glad you're him." I say, smiling despite all the turmoil that's still erupting in my gut. He offers a look, confused. "I'm glad you're the real father."

He runs his fingers through my hair and I don't tense up this time. I shut my eyes, caught up in thoughts of being wanted by someone who wasn't wishing for anything in return.

"I'm glad you're him, too," Dad says and I'm not even going to open my eyes to see if it's true.

The End.

A/N: I know I said "one-shot" but this can be a multi-chaptered fic based on the amount of reviews I get. –nudge, poke, prod-


	2. Recovery

**A/N:** Wow. You people are amazing. That last line about me writing more if I got more reviews was just food for thought. I didn't think I'd actually get this many. This fic isn't even in a real category! What is this world coming to?!

All and all, I'm really thankful. To all of you who read and wrote (notice I didn't put "or"), I'm much obliged. Please… Do it again.

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own Wanted. I only own the bits of dialogue and plot in this story, but even those I'm willing to sell to the producers for 100 bucks to see it made into some sort of sequel. –hint-hint-

XxxxXXXxxxX

Dad and I are receiving glances from the people in the elevator that threatens to plummet us to our deaths. We're in a New York apartment though, meaning the people don't really care and the building is just incredibly old.

I grunt as I lean sideways against the pulley car's dingy wall. I wonder how my dad, who, might I add, sustained ten times the injury I did, still has enough energy, nay, _blood left_ to stand stock still as we wait for our landing. He's an anomaly, and I continue to question how this superhero could be related to me.

A little girl, who has just entered the car, is looking up at me with curiosity. Yah, not for long. Once the obscure street performers and bums have hardened her with their escapades, the bleeding and near-death persons will be as exciting as spotting the milkman.

Wait… You don't see those guys much now, do you?

Okay, mailman, but you got my point. She's going to be a numb New Yorker so might as well let her look at your blood-soaked shirt and chewed up wrist, which she's going to do anyway even if you act like she's not there.

"What's wrong with your arm?" See? What was I just saying about little girls not caring if you're disguised as a nutshell 'cause they'll still ask too many questions. Her mother is bringing the girl closer to her side with shifty eyes flicking from me to my bruised and battered father. The mom offers a polite smile and attempts to muffle her child's prying comments with her hand. The daughter resents and tugs the hand off her mouth. "Did you and that man get in a fight?" she gushes. Mom needs to take her off all those action flicks.

I look at "that man" and find he's looking down at her with amusement. I'm starting to learn my dad gets a kick out of the weirdest things. Everyone else would simply find the nosy brats questions annoying. Hello there, I'm everyone else.

"Yeah, we did," I answer back, looking down at the future snob queen with a slow nod. "He started it when he tried to cut off my hand though." I hold up my wrist that was sliced by the train's wiring in the fall. I hadn't noticed a lot of my injuries until old dad was alive and walking. When we finally found our 

way back to the main road and after all of my adrenaline had faded away, I discovered a lot of hurting had been done from that little swim in the river.

You guessed it, ow.

I grin, satisfied, as the girl's eyes widen with horror. Her mom is pounding the "Door Open" button and sweeping them out of the elevator faster than I can finish my tall-tale. I turn my bemused grin to Dad but it falters, slightly, as I noticed he doesn't share my same sadistic sense of humor. Huh, must've got it from Grandma then because Mom never thought I was that funny either. Pity.

"They can't go through life thinking they can ask questions as they please." I say, leaning my head heavily against the wall and ignoring my father's displeased frown.

"Admit it, you had it in for her the moment she stepped into the elevator," My dad points out, exiting the elevator as it stops at our landing. I trail after the haughty man with a dismayed look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I question, limping down the stained hallway after the man, who, just to let you know, is completely ignoring me. "Look, I didn't have it in for a little girl," I defend, trying to keep the whine out of my voice that has that annoying tendency of creeping in.

He doesn't reply as he's picking the lock to my old apartment. He sends me a sidelong glance that he thinks I can't see since I've crossed my arms and am now huffily resting my back against a wall. Hello, kind of your biological son. The super vibrating vision power helps me see that infuriating gleam in your eyes that I'm starting to learn annoys me now more than it scared me then.

"You have five minutes," My father announces, moving aside to let me into the room.

I blink, "Five minutes for what?"

"Get your things, pick up some mementos; I'm sure you have something in here that you need to take with you." I think about what he's said as I enter the apartment and take a cursory glance around the cramped and cluttered room. I shrug and turn back to him.

"Nothing." I affirm. "Nothing important anyway," I tell him this, and, for some unknown reason, he looks annoyed. The fact that I don't hold anything from my past life in particular regard has him pretty pissed off actually. I want to apologize since the announcement obviously upsets him, but I fight the nagging habit. Instead, I fumble with words as I search the apartment for something with sentimental value. "Uh, wait a second. Wait a second." I grab one of my Ex's vases and pull the dead flowers out. "Can't forget this… Cup."

If this were a sitcom, the laugh track would be at full volume.

My Ex's vase is actually a cheap Wal-Mart cup I'm positive we have twenty more of in the cabinet.

My dad is staring at me like I'm insane, but rather then pulling out his cell phone to call the men in white, he brushes past me to open a side table drawer next to our clawed-up couch. He slides the creaky drawer open and reaches inside, pulling out my old baseball cap.

"What about this?" He offers, holding it out to me. I eye him and the hat with the utmost suspicion.

"How did you know that I put that hat in there?" I inquire with slits for eyes, searching him for an answer.

"Well, you've kept it for so long; it would be a shame to just abandon it."

Okay, _weird_. I'm guessing the Fraternity didn't have the time to train me on clairvoyance, which is the only way he could possibly know I've had that hat for very long.

"How did you know I've kept it for so long?" I interrogate. I imagined the first questions I would ask my father would be different, more along the lines of his favorite color rather than how he somehow had his fingers in my childhood.

My father's silent as he pulls the hat back to run his fingers over the emblem of the Dodgers. I'd received the hat when I was eight at a baseball game. Well, all right, more _stole_ then actually received. See I was the last one in the bleachers, and I noticed someone had left it behind (probably in a drunken rush to some party). So without waiting for its owner's return, I picked it up and stuffed it in my shirt. I got such a high from the steal I deemed the hat my lucky hat since it gave me such a rush every time I thought about the petty crime.

Funny how my new rush comes from shooting criminals while moving at speeds up to 200 mph.

Talk about a step forward.

"I should know. I gave it to you." The revelation has me asking myself, one: is Daddy crazy? And two: Did I really find this hat on the bleachers? Since I'm pretty positive about the second one, I continue giving the man my most bewildered expression.

"That's not possible. I found it-"

"-On some bleachers at a Dodgers game." I snap my mouth shut as he finishes the story I thought I was the only one with that knowledge. "I knew you liked the team, so I left it somewhere you could find it."

I open and close my mouth, much like a goldfish in the tank. My dad ignores this and continues to stare at the hat with fondness.

"It took you awhile to notice it. Four others seized the chance to steal it before I knocked them unconscious and dragged them under the bleachers. Then again, you always were a late-bloomer." My dad chuckles lightly, looking at me with an inexplicable twinkle in his eye.

After a long pause of trying to process the information, I mutter an apprehensive "thanks." I walk over to retrieve the hat which he gives to me in a more conventional way: in person. Attempting to recover 

my cool, collected poise, I quip casually, "Any other objects you've given me that I don't know about? -Hang on, were you the guy handing out smiley face stickers at the Wal-Mart entrance, because I'm sorry to say, I didn't bother saving that one."

"What? You didn't?" I stop at his response, giving him a questioning look. He breaks out in a grin. "Two can play that game, Wesley," he reminds charmingly.

"Whatever," I say, not willing to admit having ever been tricked… Or that Dad actually had a sense of humor. "Where to next? I'm pretty sure the five minutes are up."

His next response, or should I say gesture, shocks me ten times more than the baseball cap story: He points out my window, directly at the white beach house opposite the railroad that causes my ex so much grief.

"You're kidding," I tell him.

He's kidding.

Right?

XxxxXXXxxxX

Shocker of the Year: he's not kidding.

On the contrary, the man is completely serious. I realize this as I sit on his couch, poring over post-pubescent snapshots of myself I'm pretty sure even my own mother never bothered saving. I feel like I'm losing it. Is my whole history just rewriting itself in one day? _Well_?

As I mumble incoherently at the pictures, my dad watches me with intrigue.

"I tried so hard to keep you like that. To keep you ignorant of your past and potential. This life is not what I wanted for you." I think we did a conversation like this already, but I choose to let him speak, half because I'm interested and half because my throat is dry from all of this heavy, labored breathing I've been doing lately. "Which is why I need you to promise me you'll go back to that after we take down the Fraternity. Go back to being safe."

I snap my head up at the suggestion. Right, I know you all must be sick and tired of me gasping and looking appalled all the time but I can't help it since every word that escapes my father's mouth feels like a sharp ice-pick to my neck.

"You know," And I lick my lips to state the obvious, "That's definitely not going to happen," I state, shaking my head for emphasis. He stares at me with apparent disappointment, but I try not to lose my nerve and face him with my own steely look. It works, sort of. "I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm staying right here with you."

My father must visit a zoo often because he looks as intimidating and grave as the beasts in the cages.

"Wesley," he says, as if the very name will have me apologizing and retracting all previous protests.

Not happening.

Old Wesley, sure. But this is the new me, the one he hasn't been spying on for the past twenty-some-odd years.

"Look, you may think this life wasn't meant for me, but right here, right now, has had more meaning to me than every day of my life so far. I care, now, what happens to my life and all of those around me. I care about you. And I need you to understand how big that is."

He sighs. "You will go back. I can't have you in this."

What isn't a big surprise is that my little monologue didn't work. I get it. He's heard it all before with all those criminals begging for their lives and the like. But what is a bombshell, a big nuclear bombshell, is what I do next.

"No!" I yell angirly, throwing the pictures of my younger self on the floor. After the frames' glass has shattered from the impact with the floor, the only sound in the room is my heavy breathing and the train making a quick turn around the rail. I wait for it to pass, fixing _him_ with a heated look. "_No._ You don't get to decide that. You don't get to look out for me, and you certainly don't get to _play god_ with my life. I am the perfect weapon, and I do all of those things for myself. Suddenly telling me you're my father gives you **no right** to tell me what I can and cannot do because, _Dad_, you're about twenty years too late."

For one moment, I think he's going to kill me. His jaw is clenched in the same way I remember only when he whipped out his gun and started shooting at Fox. Hopefully all of my aching joints were up to dodging bullets.

"I'm going out." I flinch accidentally at his words. Despite the fact that he didn't start a shootout in my general direction, seeing him grab his leather jacket and head for the door leaves me just as startled.

Predictable.

If I could use any word that I WISH my dad was, that would be it. Hands down.

XxxxXXXxxxX

Freeze.

One moment I'm reliving the worst moment of my life and the next I'm bolting upright in a small bathtub, screaming as wax flakes chip off my face into the murky water I'm immersed in.

I can still feel the gun in my hand, see the pain on his face and smell the scent of death all around me. Blood is everywhere. Blood of the people I murdered and will murder. I'm immersed in it, bathed in their suffering. I can still see their sinister gazes.

Still hear _his_ final breath.

"_Wesley,"_ he wheezes, blood crawling up his throat, filling up his lungs. I look on, my own breathing on the verge of stopping completely. The dull throbbing has moved from my head to my vision, shaking my vision.

"Wesley…" He gurgles though he's drowning in crimson. Darkness is creeping at the corner of my eyes, and I know now what will happen. When he's gone, I'm going with him…

"**Wesley!**" It's surprisingly loud this time, almost pleading. "Breathe!" And I gasp obediently. My lungs fill up with oxygen and the room brightens instantly, sending a wave of nausea in its wake. My back is sore from the spot he's slapped to revive me and my head is spinning from the wave of air.

I look at my father. He's alive, but the thought of my bullet hitting, killing, _murdering_ him still plays fresh in my mind, over and over. I grab the lapels of his coat and lean into the crook of his neck.

"No, we-we can't do it." I pant anxiously. His sweat stinks of worry, his breath smells like bourbon, and his stubbly jaw scratches against my cheek as I attempt to inhale his very being. Nothing else matters except that I don't lose this man, again.

"Hang on. Calm Down." He puts his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back to look intently into my eyes. "Do what, Wesley?" Dad shakes his head, confused.

"We can't fight Sloan." My balled up fists shake the lapels they grasp, trying to make him understand my desperation. He continues to gaze into my eyes, unhindered.

"We can." He assures firmly, brushing my sopping wet hair out of my face to get a better view of my face, expressing his sincerity. "We'll fight him and we'll win." I shake my head. Get it in your head, Dad.

"No," The sight of his lifeless body still burns, painful, in my memory and I have to look away from his searching expression. I will not be responsible for his death. Fighting Sloan is not an option. "You don't- don't understand. We _can't_."

My father's leans his head down to search my downcast eyes. He emanates a certain amount of pressure that makes me feel more self-conscious about my _thoughts_ than the fact that I'm blubbering whilst sitting naked in a bathtub with quickly melting wax.

"What's wrong, son?"

Son.

Now there's a word I haven't been called before. Okay, maybe by some elderly grocer in the passing of a small town, but I'm pretty positive he wasn't using the literal case of the word. Over the few hours I've actually known this man, I'm starting to learn that sincerity is how he deals with me. I don't know how he knows that's all I've ever craved in a person, but he does and I'm having problems keeping a sob out 

of my heavy breathing as I whisper the lone thought in my mind: "I… I don't want to lose you again, Dad."

It's one of those landmark moments when I actually get hugged. My father's slipped me in his dry, potentially very damp, embrace. And what am I doing through all of this? Oh, you know, the usual: Looking shocked, scared, and incredibly uncomfortable.

It's not one of those lame, cue-the-"aww" moments though. By the looks of it, I seem to be the foreign exchange student to hugs, but, being in his arms feels more real and natural than anything I've ever felt. I don't understand why or how, but I close my eyes and finally calm down, all gruesome, scarring thoughts coming to a screeching halt.

People tell a lot from their body language. Janice's said, "Everybody hates me so I eat a lot so they can't see what they hate. I sure show them!" But, right then, my father was saying something different, something only I could interpret. "You don't have to worry about me. I protect you because that's what my job's always been. Anyways, I'm better at it than you are." He probably didn't mean for it to feel cocky, but I could sense the underlying snobbery in his hug.

I only hope he knows how much I want him.

XxxxXXXxxxX

"Valium." Dad says. "I keep it on hand when the tremors get too strong." He hands me two pills and a glass of water. I place the pills on my tongue and wash them down with a sip of the cooling liquid, reaching up to place the glass on the side table. I'm lying on the couch while Dad sweeps up the shards of glass.

"Sorry, about the freak out earlier…" I apologize, surveying the meticulous job my father does scooping up every last shard. Anal.

"Which one?" He asks, sweeping the last bits of glass up and dropping it into the waste bin next to the window. "You seem to be having a lot of those these days."

I smile at the comment. When people rephrase the obvious, it turns out pretty funny. "Just when things start to make sense, you end up just as screwy as you were before, you know?"

My dad walks over and settles down at the foot of the couch, giving me a view of the side of his head. "Are you, by chance, feeling sorry for yourself?"

"No," I answer much too quickly. Darnnit. He's good. He smiles, noticing the rush of my words. I feel like those little kids that spend their days trying to impress grownups with wild and crazy tap dances when I say this but, when my dad smiles, I like it. I don't know, I feel accomplished. Thinking about kids and my own childhood, my mind reveals a question that I had always decided I would ask my father if I met him. No better time than now. I clear my throat and he stops his smirking to look at me questioningly. "Why 

did you leave seven days after my birth? I mean, why did you stick around at all if you could've left right away?"

Although a simple "because" would have sufficed, my dad decides to graciously tell me all of his side of the story. He leans more comfortably against the couch, much like the elderly do when they're about to tell you about their childhood. The only exception now is that this time I'm not getting ready to euthanize the speaker; I'm on the edge of my couch with curiosity.

"They told us it was like creating your own biggest weakness." My father begins. "At the time, I didn't understand what they meant, that is, until the first moment I held you in my arms. Life had just sent me the greatest thing it could possibly give. That week was the hardest thing I had ever had to live through. Every second of every day, I held you. You were a miracle, Wesley. No Fraternity member would ever risk having children, and here I was trying to figure out a way I could be with you, watch you grow and become a man. But the moment I looked into your baby blues, I knew it... If you were ever going to be safe, you and I were never allowed to meet... I hope you understand that all I ever did was for justice and your protection. Of course the feeling of abandonment was mutual."

Yes, kids, and that's why you've never met grandpa. I can see myself telling my own children this sad tale. God, and he wants me to go back to being normal? How normal can anyone turn out when their father tells them they have most _abnormal_ beginning of any human being. You, uninteresting piece of lint, probably had two loving parents with absolutely no connections to secret agencies. It's understandable that you sit on your computer all day reading about my life, but I don't think that's even a possibility now with me. Okay, I'm sorry to have upset you. I did mean it.

"Dad, now I say this with the utmost respect, but, times have changed," I point out and my dad tilts his head in question. "You did everything in your power to keep us apart, I realize that, but now, and I know this might seem hard for your perfectly wired brain to understand, you have to do everything in your power to keep us together… Because I'm not leaving. Period."

This is me trying to seem firm and ominous, attempting to show my father that I make the big decisions. Apparently, it isn't working. The man is _laughing_ for goodness' sake. _Why_ is a question for the books. He turns to me with that enigmatic glint in his eye.

"You've found my kryptonite, Wesley." Obviously, I don't understand how I've found anything, because he continues. "It was that very stubbornness from your mother that got you conceived in the first place." I chuckle too even though the latter half of the statement is slightly perturbing. "We were in bed and it was the fourth night-mff!"

Quick reflexes have saved me from yet another disturbing image I'm positive I don't need engraved into my mind. With my hand clamped over my father's mouth, I can tell his aging eyes are smiling with evil pleasure.

"Story time is officially over," I insist, nodding while fixing him with a stern look. I slide off the couch to sit on the plush beige carpet beside him. "If you so much as utter a word related to that night, I will soon 

be the worst thing life has ever given you. Your choice." I cautiously remove my hand to reveal his infuriating beam of sadistic contentment.

"You'll always be the best thing life's given me, and no grouchy threats will ever change that." He affirms.

"You're teasing me; stop it."

"Look around you, Wesley. If I don't do it, no one else will." he tells me, with the spark in his eye. It's care, by the way, the spark. I can see it now. Pretty soon he won't be so unfamiliar and scary to me. Soon I'll be able to read him as well as he does me.

I give in to his unusual wit, this one time, and pull out the Dodgers hat from my back pocket, running my hand across the knitted emblem. The rush I got from stealing it is gone; in its place is a new feeling: Safety. I hear children have security blankets when they're young, I suppose what's given me the feeling of being fearless all those years wasn't a rush at all but actually an overwhelming sense of protection.

Talk about a step forward.

The End.

XxxxXXXxxxX

**A/N:** And that's it. What did you think? No, no, don't talk to your computer (that just looks creepy), press the purple button and type it in! Don't forget to press Send as well. _God, do I have to walk these people through __**everything.**_

Once again, thank you for all the kind reviews. I will not be posting chapter three unless I receive good ideas. Really, as much as I love writing these two, I'm out of ideas of what to write, so please share your own. I'll be glad to ruminate on some.

Have nice days,

-Sarah


End file.
